


Loving Bellamy Blake

by thelilging



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilging/pseuds/thelilging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Clarke,” Raven says, uncharacteristically gentle, “If something really did happen to the people who loved you, then we would have lost Bellamy a long time ago.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their world is finally safe, the nuclear power plants shut down. As the Sky People settle into life, trying to figure out how to exist in a world that isn't torn apart by war, Clarke is dealing with her own challenges.</p>
<p>Namely, how to go about loving Bellamy Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving Bellamy Blake

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a tumblr post about the large void in our fandom of explorations of how deeply Clarke loves Bellamy (versus Bellamy pining over Clarke), and this is what came of that. Basically, this is what the bellarke lover in me would love to see in season four.

Clarke can pinpoint the exact moment when she realized exactly how much she loves Bellamy.

It's after they have deactivated the nuclear power points, saving their world for what feels like the thousandth time. With an unstable peace established with the grounders and no sign of an impending devastation on their hands, the Sky People have set up camp on a new piece of land, one that doesn't encroach on any group's territory. There are no bad memories on this stretch of land, this camp that is just a few minutes' walk from the calm waves of the ocean. Bruised and battered, with blood literally and figuratively on their hands, the Sky People are weary as they begin to build their new, hopefully permanent settlement. They learned not to be optimistic a long time ago, but hope has carefully begun weaving itself into their conversations, into their late night thoughts. There is a sense of a new beginning. A fresh start.

The separation of the remaining members of the original hundred and the other Arkers is even more prominent now that there isn't an urgent goal uniting them. Without consciously planning it, the young people have begun setting up their homes in their own section of the fledgling camp, flimsy tents reminiscent of their very simple beginnings, before they fully knew what they were getting into by falling from the sky. Before they lost over half of their friends, before they knew what it felt like to take a man's life. Before death and destruction followed their every step.

Bonfires by the beach have become a tradition. Monty and Jasper stir up some of their deadly moonshine, and what's left of the hundred gathers around the fire that Bellamy and Miller build. The first few nights, the group sat in near silence, each nursing their own drink and lost in their thoughts as the absence of their friends was even more noticeable than ever. But slowly, at a pace that seemed almost brutally slow, they began to talk. To laugh. They shared memories, old jokes from the past. Laughed about the foolish things they did when they first arrived on this planet, young and naïve.

After a few months, the bonfires transform from an opportunity to remember their loved ones into a chance to escape the older Arkers and let loose. The moonshine flows even more easily, and the shouts and giggles carry across the beach and into the darkness. They sit on pieces of driftwood or sprawl across the sand, heads on their friends' laps as they gaze at the stars, relishing the warm burn of Monty's moonshine as it settles low in their stomachs.

It is on one of those nights when Clarke realizes exactly how much she loves Bellamy.

They sit opposite each other in the circle, Clarke between Raven and Monty while Bellamy murmurs with Miller and a younger boy, one who can't be more than fifteen. _It's a miracle he survived,_ Clarke thinks to herself as she watches the boy idly. He laughs openly in a way that Bellamy and Miller cannot, his grin wide and shoulders loose. He seems far too gentle to have made it past everything they went through. How can he laugh like that when he has seen so much death? Clarke envies him and his lightness.

Clarke's eyes are drawn to Bellamy, his dark hair messy and falling into his eyes. (She should force him into a haircut, she knows, but she can't bring herself to do so. It was always Octavia who took care of her brother in that way, and now... Clarke doesn't want to make Bellamy remember his sister's absence needlessly. He'll ask her to take care of it or do it himself when he's ready. She isn't going to push him.) The flames of the fire dance across Bellamy's face, sending some features into deep shadow and accenting others, softening his strong jaw with its careful caress. He has abandoned his trademarked jacket in favor of a snug black t-shirt, and his elbows rest on his knees as he idly pokes at the fire with a long stick, adjusting the logs and sending sparks into the salty ocean air. He looks softer than he has in a long time, his guard slowly fading away. With each passing day, he looks more and more like the man he should have been, the man he would have been if they hadn't been thrown into such a vicious war zone.

Miller says something to the boy, probably one of his sly quips said with a deceptively deadpan expression, and the boy laughs, head thrown back towards the stars. Miller's joke pulls at the corners of Bellamy's lips, twitching under the gentle flickering light of the fire until finally he reluctantly allows a smile, one of his rare crooked ones that completely lights up his face.

Clarke's heart stutters. A warm, relieved feeling creeps into her stomach, and she sucks in a surprised breath at how much Bellamy's happiness affects her. _He's okay,_ she thinks to herself. _He's survived all of this, and he's really going to be okay someday._

And she really, really loves him.

 

*

 

After that night, Clarke can't stop seeing Bellamy in everything around her. He's her best friend, of course, so it's not like they were ever that far apart before. But now, as she stitches up cuts and sets broken bones, chats with Jasper and Monty over dinner, she's aware of Bellamy's every move. She has always had a small, built in radar for him, making sure that he was alive and uninjured, but now that radar is being put to another use. She notices Bellamy in a very, very different way.

She notices when a little girl trips and scrapes her knee and Bellamy abandons his job ordering around the guard trainees to scoop her up, perching her on his hip as he examines the knee and carefully brushes the dirt out of it. He sees Clarke watching from a few steps away and he sends her a small smile over the little girl's head before turning his attention back to his charge, carefully setting her down on her feet with a smile and a high five for being so brave, a white bandage tied with military precision around her tiny knee.

She notices when Bellamy returns from hunting with pelts slung over his back, dark curls plastered to his sweaty forehead, gun tucked into the waistband of his pants and a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

She notices when Bellamy finds her in the medical tent later that day and pulls out the herbs she had been coveting for weeks out of his pocket with a shy smile, the tips of his ears flushed.

She notices when Bellamy hangs back at dinner that night as everyone else rushes forward, tired of their typical dinners of fish and eager to get at the fresh deer meat. Clarke loads up both her plate and one for Bellamy that she presents to him with an exasperated eye roll. “You're the reason we have this for dinner tonight,” she tells him firmly when he begins to protest. “You don't always have to look out for everyone else.”

She notices when Bellamy staunchly advocates for building a sturdier medical building at the next Council meeting, arguing that it is more important to have a reliable medical center than a mess hall or cabins for their people. He doesn't meet her eyes across the table during the discussion, but she finds him afterward, wordlessly touching his hand with her smaller one in thanks.

She definitely notices when Bellamy goes crashing into the cerulean ocean waves with Miller, Monty, and Jasper, shirt and shoes abandoned in the sand, leaving miles of tanned skin on display for her to ogle from shadows of the treeline. She turns away quickly and scurries back to the medbay. The blush that has worked its way from her cheeks to her chest doesn't disappear for hours later.

She notices him. And she doesn't know what to do.

“So,” Raven says abruptly one day, sitting gracelessly in the cool sand beside Clarke, snacking on a handful of raspberries and walnuts, “are you ever going to do anything about it?”

Clarke raises her eyebrows and looks back over the ocean, stained fiery orange and soft rose in the sunset. The air is warm but not as stifling as it was over the past few days, and the wayward drops of salt water that occasionally reach her ankles sooth the sunburn that has turned her whole body an unflattering shade of pink. “What?”

“Bellamy,” Raven says around a mouthful.

“Bellamy?” Clarke echoes, her stomach twisting nervously.

“Don't laugh, okay?” Raven says, eying Clarke sharply. They both know how rare it is for Raven to initiate a conversation about feelings. “But I've noticed how you've been looking at him. It's different from how you look at all the rest of us plebeians.”

Clarke frowns at her friend, who shrugs unapologetically, a few strands of hair loosening from her tight ponytail ever so slightly in the soft ocean breeze. “He's my best friend,” Clarke explains quietly.

“Finn was my best friend,” Raven challenges without bite, “but that didn't stop me from loving him the way I did.”

Clarke watches as a seagull dives into the waves, coming back out with a squirming fish in its dripping beak. A lone crab scuttles across the beach a few feet from the girls' toes, warm under the setting sun.

“It would never work,” Clarke says finally, her voice resigned. “I don't—We couldn't—Raven, you know what happens to the people who love me. My dad, Wells, Finn, Lexa... I couldn't do that to Bellamy, even if he did feel the same way. Besides, Bellamy deserves better. He deserves the best, Raven. And that's not me.”

Raven and Clarke sit in silence, listening to the shrieking of the small children as they splash in the water a few hundred feet down the beach. Stars slowly appear in the twilight sky above them, and Raven lies on her back, eyes contemplative as they study the constellations.

“Clarke,” Raven says, uncharacteristically gentle, “If something really did happen to the people who loved you, then we would have lost Bellamy a long time ago.”

 

*

 

Clarke needs aloe vera. The sun has been relentless for days, and even the darkest complected Arkers are feeling its unyielding effect. They had managed to get by with cool compresses on overheated skin and strategic use of the shade, but she can't stand the thought of being practically helpless as yet another tearful child comes into the medbay with a blistering sunburn.

Just a few short months ago, Clarke's request of a small expedition would have been met with steadfast refusal from Bellamy. But with no apparent danger in sight, the fact of the matter is that he doesn't have a good reason to order Clarke to remain in camp. Besides, Clarke is going a bit stir-crazy. When was the last time she only dealt with menial cuts and twisted ankles for days on end? She needs a good stab wound to spice things up around camp, but by the looks of things she'll have to settle for scouting for natural remedies to sunburn.

“Three guards, including me,” Bellamy says, arms folded as he stares Clarke down from across the medbay. “Me, Miller, Murphy. One night. Final offer.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows and goes back to making bandages. “One guard. You. One day. No overnight stay.”

“What part of final offer don't you understand?” Bellamy sighs, crossing the room to sit on a stool next to Clarke. He takes half of her pile of newly washed bandages and starts hemming a torn one with small, precise stitches.

“It would be a waste of their time,” Clarke reasons as she squints down at her own handiwork. “They would be of better use on an actual hunting expedition or helping to build the new medbay and cabins.”

Bellamy clenches his jaw, pulse jumping in his neck, and Clarke grins. She knows that expression. She won.

“Fine,” he acquiesces sourly. “When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow. We can leave early in the morning and hopefully make it back before it gets really hot in the afternoon,” Clarke answers immediately.

“Fair enough,” Bellamy agrees, tying off the end of the thread and examining his work. “Does this look good enough?”

Clarke scowls. “Shut up. Your sewing is better than mine and you know it.”

“Your words, not mine,” Bellamy says smugly. He takes another bandage from his pile and glances over at hers with a small, teasing smirk. “You might want to stop making demands and start working. You're falling behind, Princess.”

 

*

 

Clarke and Bellamy leave camp the next morning just as dawn begins to break, the world still quiet and soft in the early morning light. Dew dampens their worn boots as they walk in unison into the forest, and even the birds are just beginning to wake, their song quiet and lonely at such an early hour. Bellamy and Clarke each carry a backpack for the medicine that they will hopefully find, but Bellamy's is larger and has the tools they may need in it, much to Clarke's annoyance. She's not some delicate flower; they're searching for the plant for her, so she should be carrying their supplies. And she would be, if only Bellamy wasn't such a stubborn, overprotective asshole.

Bellamy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small gun, holding it out to Clarke. She looks down at it and then glances up at him, unimpressed.

“What am I going to need that for?” she asks sharply.

“Protection,” he answers shortly. Bellamy is notoriously grouchy in the morning, and today is no exception. “Just humor me, please, Princess.”

Clarke purses her lips but takes the gun and tucks it into her waistband in the same way Bellamy likes to do with his own weapons. “We've been here for three months,” she reminds him quietly, “and no one has bothered us. I think it's pretty safe to say that we're out of the woods.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow and glances around them at the towering trees, sunlight filtering in through the dense leaf cover. “I dunno, it looks like we're in the woods to me.”

“Dumbass,” Clarke bites back, rolling her eyes. Bellamy sends her a surprisingly big grin for this time of day.

They walk in silence for a while as the forest slowly comes to life around them. Maneuvering around wayward roots and dodging treacherously low branches almost makes Clarke feel like she has been transported back to a different time, nearly a year ago, when they first landed so unceremoniously on Earth. But now they aren't sprinting from crazed grounders, so this is definitely an improvement. A rabbit hops in front of them but Bellamy lets it go, shrugging when Clarke sends him a questioning glance.

“It's not a hunting expedition,” he explains.

They've been walking for just under two hours when Clarke spots a plant that looks like aloe vera. She crouches beside it, pulling out the sketch her mom drew for her along with a detailed list of the plant's characteristics to make sure they're getting the right remedy. Bellamy studies the paper over Clarke's shoulder.

“Looks good to me,” he says.

Clarke nods her agreement and he digs in his backpack for two knives, passing her the slightly smaller one that she has always favored. They crouch side by side, carefully cutting away vines and then the actual aloe vera plant itself. It's quick work, by no means strenuous, and before long their packs are nearly overflowing with the green plant.

A twig snaps to Clarke's left, a few yards away, and Clarke and Bellamy both freeze. Bellamy flips the knife in his hand effortlessly, transforming it into a lethal weapon that he brandishes confidently. His other hand rests on Clarke's back, gently tugging her closer as they wait with baited breath, ears ringing in protest at the sudden stillness of the forest around them.

A hog suddenly darts out of the brush and Clarke shrieks in surprise, dropping her knife. Bellamy reacts without blinking, springing to his feet and throwing his own weapon, hitting the hog in the throat. It collapses on the forest floor, and Bellamy moves forward quickly to put the animal out of its misery with practiced efficiency.

Bellamy is carefully cleaning the hog's blood off of his knife, his back still to Clarke, when he hears a small whimper. He whirls, heart in his throat, to see Clarke crouched where he left her, left arm cradled in her right hand, cheeks devoid of color as she looks at the blood dripping from her wrist and onto the forest floor.

“Fuck,” Bellamy swears, reaching her side in just a few quick strides. He rifles in his backpack for the bandages that he grabbed as a last minute precaution and takes Clarke's wrist from her slowly.

“Y-You need to stop it quickly,” she says shakily, voice shrill. After living in peace for the past few months, the sight of so much blood makes her heart pound as battlefield screams echo in her ears. She squeezes her eyes shut only to see men and women bleeding out in front of her themselves, eyes staring at nothing and skin bluish with death. “I'm losing a lot of b-blood really fast, Bell.”

She's not wrong. The cut is about four inches long and surprisingly deep, a harsh vertical mar on the pale skin of her wrist. Dark blood seeps out, smearing onto her palm and raining down on the aloe vera plant below her in perfectly round splatters.

“It's okay,” Bellamy says in a tone of voice that affirms that their situation is very not-okay. Clarke knows Bellamy better than she knows herself, and she knows that voice. Bellamy is worried. Really worried. “I need you to stay here with me, Clarke.”

Clarke clenches her teeth, biting back tears at how well Bellamy knows her. She closes her eyes and wills the images of war-torn villages and dying children to go away. “I-I'm here,” she whispers, forcing herself to focus on the scene in front of her.

Bellamy holds a bandage on her wrist, trying to soak up the blood and stem the flow, but it soaks through in moments. Her blood stains his hands, and he smudges it on his cheek when a panicked hand darts up to push aside his too long hair. “Why is it bleeding so fucking much?” he snarls.

“Vertical cuts to the wrist are more dangerous than horizontal,” Clarke manages. “I need stitches.”

“You want me to give you _stitches_?” Bellamy echoes in horror.

“I don't _want_ you to,” Clarke growls through clenched teeth, “I _need_ you to.”

“I-I-I can't,” Bellamy stammers. “We don't even have the supplies, do we? We don't have anything to sterilize it with.”

“In my pack,” Clarke gasps, covering Bellamy's shaking hand with her own on top of the damp bandage and nodding towards the bag. “There's an emergency first aid kit. There might be some in there.”

Bellamy digs frantically through the bag, throwing the aloe vera plant onto the forest floor hastily, until he finally comes across a small box at the bottom of the bag. He opens it and, sure enough, there are two thin strips of cloth inside, along with a spool of thread and a needle.

“It's here,” he says, falling onto his knees next to Clarke and looking to her helplessly for direction. “But no moonshine.”

“O-Okay,” she pants, forehead sticky with sweat. “I'd rather get an infection than bleed out.”

Bellamy nods once, expression stony. “Tell me what to do.”

“Tourniquet. Use the cloth from the first aid kit.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath and ties the fabric around Clarke's forearm tightly, wincing in guilt as she groans. There isn't an immediately noticeable impact on the blood seeping from her wound, but she deems his work acceptable with a sharp nod after a short examination.

“S-Sit with your back to this tree. Thread the needle.”

Bellamy does as she says, brow furrowed, but then she crawls between his legs, back to his chest. She holds out her injured arm and he automatically takes it between his bloodied hands.

“It's going to hurt me,” she warns him, “but you need to keep going, okay?”

“Fuck,” he growls, closing his eyes briefly to gather himself before taking a closer look at her arm. Clarke turns her head to the side and buries her face in his neck, bracing herself for the pain. It certainly won't be the first time she has had stitches on the ground, but it doesn't get easier with experience. She has even stitched herself up before, but she doesn't trust herself to be able to manage such a serious injury while still suffering flashbacks to their war with the grounders. This time it's Bellamy's job.

Bellamy carefully threads the needle through her skin, trying to minimize the pain as much as he can, and Clarke gasps, her labored breath hitting his neck.

“You're okay,” he whispers, finishing the first stitch to the tune of Clarke's whimpers. A tear lands on his neck, and he grits his teeth, stomach rolling at her suffering. “You're doing so good, baby,” he promises as he continues sewing up her cut. “Such a brave, brave princess.”

It's an excruciating process. The thread is poorly made, fragile as it slides through Clarke's skin, hindering Bellamy's careful work. His hands are shaky from nerves and worry, making the stitches go even slower. She gasps and moans into his neck, biting at the neckline of his shirt when the pain gets bad enough. By the time her wound is stitched up, both of their clothes are soaked with blood and sweat. It's impossible to tell how long it took, but the muggy woods around them have darkened significantly.

Bellamy brings a hand up to rest against Clarke's hair, running his fingers gently through the messy strands. He wraps the other around her waist, cradling her in his arms as her pants even out. Blood pounds in Bellamy's own ears as the adrenaline in his veins slowly fades, leaving him exhausted.

Clarke shifts in his arms, pulling herself out of his neck a bit to examine her cut. “Good job,” she says, her voice hoarse.

Bellamy runs a hand down her back soothingly before carefully covering the stitches with the only clean cloth left. “How did that even happen?”

Clarke shakes her head and rubs at her eyes with her good hand. “I dropped my knife.”

“Rookie mistake,” Bellamy teases half-heartedly, his voice betraying his relief that she'll be okay. “You've gotten weak in your old age, Princess.”

Clarke curls into his chest again, breaths still coming shakily. “I'm sorry I messed up our trip,” she says in a small voice. “We should have brought Miller and Murphy. You were right.”

“You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say those three magical words,” Bellamy murmurs.

Clarke pokes him in the side weakly. “Dumbass.” Her words lack their usual venom.

By the time either of them feel up to making the trip home, darkness is already falling. They might be out of practice with surviving out in the wilderness, but they both know that trying to find their way back in the dark while already exhausted is a recipe for disaster. Instead they finish off the extra food they packed for their trip and curl up under the protection of a tall weeping widow, somewhat hidden from any potential passersby. Luckily the night is warm and a fire isn't necessary to keep them warm.

Bellamy takes the first watch, and Clarke falls asleep almost immediately, her left arm carefully cradled in her lap. The night is quiet other than Clarke's soft breathing next to him, and the time passes quickly. Bellamy wasn't going to wake her for her shift, knowing that she needs all the sleep she can get after such a rough day, but Clarke wakes on her own, curling into him even more in her sleepy state.

“Anything suspicious?” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

“No,” he answers quietly. “Go back to sleep. I've got it under control.”

Clarke frowns and struggles to push off of him to sit on her own. He moves to help her but she bats his hands away and pulls herself up to her full sitting height, somehow still managing to look fearsome while sitting half-asleep between his legs with a badly injured arm. “Bellamy Blake.”

“I'm not tired,” he says defensively, beckoning her back towards him. “Come here.”

Clarke pouts but does as he says, settling back into his warmth. “Why are you so stubborn?” she complains.

Bellamy laughs gently, chest rumbling under her cheek, and Clarke's eyes drift closed at the sound. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to a Bellamy who can laugh like that; for so long, he couldn't, and even now it's a new development, one that only she is privy to. She loves it.

She loves him.

The thought makes her go still, stomach fluttering nervously. There's a bit of guilt mixed in, too, because how could she have let this happen? Bellamy is her closest friend, her most trusted ally. How could she have betrayed this trust, this mutual understanding that they would always be there for each other, by loving him like this? By falling in love with him? It's not fair to either of them, and she pushes the feeling down, promising herself that she won't ever let him know because it will undoubtedly get between them, breaking up her most valued friendship. And she can't let that happen.

“What are you thinking about?” Bellamy asks softly. He plays with her hair, twirling the strands and massaging her scalp.

Clarke calms under his touch, nosing at his throat. She shouldn't touch him like this. How can she burrow into him like this, allow herself to know what it's like to cuddle with Bellamy Blake, when this has to be the last time it happens? Now that she knows what it feels like to have his hand running down her back soothingly, to feel the vibrations of his words and laughter against her cheek, she doesn't know if she will be able to go back to their close friendship. To never feel this closeness again.

Because the truth is, Bellamy Blake is it for her. She has never loved anyone so fully, never been so all-encompassed by her love for someone. And she never will. She will never be able to love another man or woman and not compare them to Bellamy in every way. She will never be able to look at another man or woman without wondering if they are as protective as he is, if they are as selfless, if they are as kind and hardworking and strong. She will never be able to love another man or woman without thinking of Bellamy.

“I love you,” she blurts out.

Bellamy's hand doesn't even pause in her hair. “I love you, too, Princess,” he murmurs.

Clarke sits up, pulls herself away from him, missing his warmth immediately. “No,” she says, blue eyes meeting brown and not looking away. “Bellamy, I _love_ you. I'm in love with you.”

Bellamy freezes, his dark eyes flitting across her face as if trying to tell if she's lying. A tiny bubble of laughter surfaces within her at the thought. Only Bellamy Blake—humble, careful, self-deprecating Bellamy Blake—would think a girl was lying when she said she loved him.

“I-I understand if you don't feel the same way,” Clarke fumbles, cheeks flaming under his gaze. “But I just—I had to tell you, Bell. I don't—I don't even know how long I've felt like this, maybe forever, honestly, but I just—I was looking at you across the fire and it hit me. I-I-”

He cuts her off with his lips, his calloused hands cupping her sunburned cheeks as his lips move against hers, careful and hopeful and firm all at once. Clarke relaxes into the kiss, hands coming up to rest on his wrists, and he pulls her back into his lap, smiling against her lips. He pulls back, breathing uneven.

“Oh, Clarke,” he breathes out against her jaw hotly. “How could you ever think that I don't feel the same? I love you, Princess, so much. I can't remember a time when I didn't love you.”

Clarke kisses him again, chaste and smiling, a mess of teeth and relief, and snuggles into his chest, nosing his neck.

For a long time, she didn't think she deserved to be happy. After taking so many lives, bringing so much destruction to this world, how could she? She thought she was destined to a life of guilt and misery, a life of watching her friends move on and fall in love and grow old while she served her penance for all of the terrible things she has done, but sudden happiness blooms in her chest as Bellamy tightens his arms around her.

Maybe there is hope for her after all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts/feedback/constructive criticism appreciated :)


End file.
